


Finding Okay

by ItsClydeBitches



Category: Preacher (TV)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Couch Cuddles, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Panic Attacks, Prompt Fill, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-18
Updated: 2016-07-18
Packaged: 2018-07-24 20:53:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7522744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ItsClydeBitches/pseuds/ItsClydeBitches
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jesse comforts Cass after a particularly rough night. Written for the paragraph prompt from a lovely anon. I tried to work most of the lines into the fic: </p><p>“Anyone noticed the slow, deceptively gentle way Jesse will swing his head and whisper so sweet to you the annihilation of your soul? Cassidy's knees went weak when Jesse murmured so sweet to that dick about the bunny sound in the bar. Every now and then he swivels his head just so and Cassidy wants to go to his knees. His orders, WOG or no, sound like gospel and he'll take them. He must have been born with this in him or something but Cassidy doesn't care. Just give him MORE”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Finding Okay

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a fill, but also out of a totally self-indulgent need after the last few episodes. Potentially/totally OOC. Read it if you will ^_^

“Cass? You okay?”

 

He thought, _What a fuckin’ shite question, padre_ because when did you apply ‘okay’ to an addict? To a bum. A cheat and a liar and a fornicator. When the hell did a vampire ever earn the right to be ‘okay’? If one ever did, the world might well be more damned than even the likes of Jesse Custer could fix.

 

Cass didn’t say any of this though. He didn’t say anything at all, mouth too full of wool and his gums aching so fierce that his teeth felt like they were rotting inside his mouth. If Cass opened it they might all tumble out, onto the beer-stained rug, scattering blood and enamel like a trail between him and Jesse. Gruesome breadcrumbs... and though Cass would dearly like to find his way back to him, Jesse didn’t deserve that. Especially not after he spent so long vacuuming it this afternoon. For some reason, the distorted memory of Jesse bent in cleaning seemed both funny and horribly distant. The whole image made Cass laugh.

 

Except, he didn’t realize it wasn’t _quite_ a laugh until Jesse’s expression morphed from confusion into outright concern.

 

Cass became aware of the rest of his body then: a sharp jab in his shoulder where he leaned against the doorframe; light stings across his ankles and calves, the result of walking through brush unhurried; a similar pulse in the soles of his feet, courtesy of gravel on bare toes; hot skin but cold hands and knees; the grungy, itchy feeling of unwashed clothes; the lank stickiness of equally unwashed hair. Cass was briefly so consumed by other sensations that he didn’t register the touch of Jesse’s hand.

 

Ah, Jesse was a gentle one. Fools would deny it—claiming that Jesse was a man of hard, sharp edges, who’d kick sooner than kiss and hit sooner than hug—and perhaps they were half right, but Cass could see another layer entirely, if given the chance to look. How did they miss the slow, deceptively gentle way Jesse would swing his head, then whisper so sweet to you, the annihilation of your soul? It hardly mattered whether that whisper was a curse or a praise, the result was quite the same.

 

“ _Cass_.”

 

Oh, but Jesse _was_ gentle now, his hands on either side of Cass’ neck, like he wanted to steady him, take his pulse, and strangle him in equal measure. Cass couldn’t remember the last time someone had touched him like that. It wasn’t the frenzied crush of a lover, or even two mates coming together for a slap on the back, the kind of touch that was over far too soon. This was honest and lasting. Jesse knew exactly what Cass was, yet _he_ chose to touch _him_.

 

Cass wasn’t sure anyone had done that.

 

He fell.

 

His mine was muddled, though not so far gone that Cass couldn’t remember his mantra since entering this damn town: don’t taint Jesse Custer. Don’t hurt him. Don’t fuck things up and hell, if you could manage to worship him properly, that would be great too. He fell because Cass would never be so bold as to ask for something like a hug. His personality didn’t allow it and Jesse sure as fuck didn’t deserve it. A touch was one thing—a solid miracle in the making—but an embrace was something else entirely, something Cass didn’t know how to name. So he simply... crumpled, and he waited to see if Jesse would catch him in the end. He’d always be selfish enough to hope for that.

 

Yet landing wouldn’t be so bad. Softer than the fall from a plane, certainly. Cass’ knees had gone weak the second Jesse murmured, so sweet, to that dick Donnie and made him make that bunny sound in the bar, and ever since, every now and then, Jesse would swivel his head and Cass wanted to drop to his knees too, just as Donnie had. He’d do it with ease, Genesis or no. Jesse could curse Cass out, call him every piece of filth to mar this world, and Cass would take it all, the words sounding like gospel to his ears. He could snap Cass’ bone and that _crack!_ would be musical. Cass would step into the sun at a simple look from Jesse Custer and—

 

—and there was the floor.

 

Except that a split second before Cass’ head struck wood (he frowned at the picture, blood and brains on the newly cleaned carpet) a hand slid between the two, another hand curling around his waist. Cass heard the hiss of Jesse’s voice as his weight smashed his fingers against that wood, but then the curses turned to grunts as Jesse hauled Cass backwards, dumping them both onto the couch. Just like that Cass was in Jesse’s lap and he didn’t know what to do with such a gift now that he had it.

 

Oh, and Jesse was giving him more words.

 

“Cass? Cass! What did you take? Hey—hey look here. Did something happen?”

 

It wasn’t what he needed to hear, because nothing _had_ happened, nothing more than what his whole life had become. Cass might have indulged too much and mixed too often. It’s possible another patron had thrown insults at Cass that, ridiculously, hit closer to home than he’d ever admit. There was a rather high chance that Cass had lost his shoes and whatever scraps of dignity he had this night, then _gotten_ lost because where exactly did he have to go? How did you go home when home was a person, not a place, and that person would be justifiably sane in locking their door? Not that this had stopped Cass...

 

But all of this was child’s play compared to past experiences. Tonight had been simple. There was no reason to be feeling this way. _Nothing had happened._

 

It was this self-admission—that Cass had dared to come to Jesse’s without a good reason, at the very least—that finally set him over the edge.

 

He’d obviously cried before. Over the years Cass had developed a habit of letting tears sneak out on a semi-regular basis, just three or four at a time, small reliefs that allowed him to easily hide them behind his shades. He was just a leaky faucet. Just a drip and a drop that could mean nothing at all.

 

This wasn’t like that.

 

All at once Cass couldn’t breathe, the sobs coming so hard and fast they shook his frame, arched his body like he’d been stabbed. Each exhale was a rasping, awful thing and the shame that accompanied the sound sent Cass’ hands shaking. He slapped one hand over his mouth in an attempt to _shut himself up_ , but all that did was create a sensation of drowning, forcing Cass to buck. Through it all he was too aware of Jesse beneath him, stilled in shock. What was left of Cass’ rationality told him to expect the strike that would accompany him being shoved off the couch. It seemed like he’d have his meeting with with the floor after all…

 

Instead, Jesse’s fingers tentatively threaded through his hair and Cass _howled_.

 

Jesse’s touch was the first taste of a drug, a single sip from the bottle. Cass was an addict, after all. He needed more.

 

So he threw himself into the embrace, scrunching into a fetal position and pressing his face harshly to Jesse’s stomach. Cass shook there, feeling warmer and safer than he’d ever imagined, and when Jesse locked his arms back around his head and shoulders, Cass found bliss. It burned like the sun, scorching and cleansing him, and Cass claimed every bit of it that Jesse was willing to give. Let him die here then. What a goddamn blessing.

 

“C’mon, Cass, c’mon, just breathe for me, bastard, That’s it. Shit I’m no good at this... should I call someone—? Hey! Alright, jesus, I’m not going anywhere, you fuck, grab here, go on—” and Cass anchored himself with fists clutching Jesse’s shirt. He couldn’t let go. Cass left grooves in his own palms that even Jesse’s holy fabric wouldn’t protect him from.

 

Cass felt clammy then, despite how warm Jesse was. His chest was tight and his legs were developing pins and needles from this position. Cass just curled them tighter. He sort of felt like he was going to vomit and the mere thought of doing that to Jesse made him spiral all over again.

 

There was a moment then when Cass felt him shifting, a now familiar terror flitting through him that Jesse was leaving, gone for good… but he kept his hand pressed firm to Cass’ back and was sitting up again in just a second. Cass smelled the metallic tang of a knife—the one kept in Jesse’s boot—and then the stronger, heady scent of blood. Jesse snuck his cut arm down to Cass’ lips, like this was a physical injury he could heal. Nevertheless, Cass took the offering with a moan.

 

Maybe it did work, because feeding gave him something other to do than cry, and soon his swallows were in time with Jesse’s pulse, both of those in time with the fingers still carding through his hair. And Jesse spoke. Inarticulate ramblings interspersed with curses, so _Jesse_ that it nearly brought a smile to Cass’ lips, the first emotion able to break through. All of it soothed him.

 

Never true peace though. There was a part of him, beginning to rear up strong, that hated himself for acting this way. Taking from Jesse like this, becoming the animal that needed taming. It was so close to eroding him, setting him off once more, until Cass caught one fleeting phrase among many:

 

“—cry as long as you need to—”

 

Big words from a man who’d sworn off crying at a stupidly tender age. But wasn’t that Jesse for you? Do as I say, not as I do.

 

And Cass was bound to obey him. Perhaps he was born with that within him.

 

‘Need’ then was a fickle thing, and it stretched off into the night. Cass reached a place where Jesse could stand, and all he did with the freedom was retrieve a wet towel for Cass’ bloody mouth, ointments for the cuts, a movie to fill the now echoing silence. There was a moment in-between waking and sleeping that Cass thought he felt a dry, self-conscious kiss pressed to his hair... but even he wouldn’t wish for that.

 

What he _could_ wish for was a second chance. Cass would fall asleep there on the couch, nestled in Jesse’s lap, and he’d wake up in Jesse’s bed hours later, a hand still nearby in case he needed it. In the face of such an unexpected gesture he’d give Jesse back the Cass he’d known before, with grins and creative cursing, maybe throw in a joke to lighten the mood. He’d do his best to keep that up for his mate... until the day came that he’d fall once more.

 

Though then…Cass might have the slightest bit more hope at being caught. With enough time that hope might even become an expectation. Impossibly, on a day Cass couldn’t imagine, he might seek out Jesse’s embrace without fear or guilt.

 

Maybe that would make Cass ‘okay.’


End file.
